


Font of Mercy

by kitkatkaylie



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: All the Staklings are traumatised but they are Dealing With It, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, F/M, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, M/M, No Incest, Sansa Snark, Technically there’s major character death in the first chapter but she doesn’t stay dead, Time Travel Fix-It, Warnings May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:41:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27863994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitkatkaylie/pseuds/kitkatkaylie
Summary: Sansa died, a brother’s blade through her heart, and yet her eyes opened to a bright light and a gentle smile.Sent back to Winterfell with the words of a god ringing in their ears, Sansa and her siblings are determined to not make the same mistakes a second time around.
Relationships: Jon Snow & Arya Stark & Bran Stark & Rickon Stark & Robb Stark & Sansa Stark, Satin Flowers/Jon Snow, Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark, Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark/Sansa Stark, Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark
Comments: 54
Kudos: 317





	1. Sansa

**Author's Note:**

> So I have no self control and am posting yet another multi chapter au!

They had been so stupid. So very, very stupid.

The Crypts were filled with thousands of years of Stark dead, they were filled with the corpses of Sansa’s family. And they had put those unable to defend themselves inside of them.

As the scratching of bones upon stone sounded, for the first time Sansa was grateful that Robb’s bones had never left the Riverlands. She did not know what she would have done had she had to see his rotting face looking at her with hate. There was the same gratefulness that her father’s bones had never made it back to Winterfell either, that they were somewhere in the Neck or the Riverlands, that she would not have to see him again stumbling around headless and decaying.

So caught up was she in her gratefulness at the lack of Robb and her father, that she forgot the casket she was hiding behind was not empty. That it was the most recently filled. 

(Or perhaps it had not been that she had forgotten, perhaps she had pushed it out of her mind in an attempt to forget the horror of witnessing the death.)

There was a crash as the lid fell to the floor, as the stone shattered, and the whole world seemed to freeze as Sansa met the cold, hateful, bewitched eyes of her baby brother.

His red hair was no longer matted with blood, not after Sansa herself had washed it from him, not after she had dressed his corpse for burial and soaked his clothes with her tears. It was his eyes that drew her attention though, for an unnatural shade of blue had overtaken the Tully blue they had once shared with their mother, and Sansa found she could not look away from them. 

Not even as the blade pierced her heart. 

A blade that had once been used to introduce her brothers to live steel, a blade that had been used to introduce _father_ to live steel. The only blade which had fit Rickon’s hands in Winterfell’s diminished armoury to allow them to complete the burial ritual. 

As the cold started to fill her limbs and black started to fill her vision the last thing that Sansa saw was those eyes, and a fierce wish filled her to change their fate.

* * *

A bright light pulsed before Sansa’s eyes, brighter than anything she had experienced before. Certainly brighter than the black that she had expected after a conversation with Jon over hot cider one dark evening in her solar. 

Sansa opened her eyes, only for tears to fill them as she saw who stood before her. 

Red hair braided practically, blue eyes lined with the memory of laughter, and a gentle smile greeted her. Her _mother_ greeted her. 

“Mother?” Sansa questioned in a trembling voice. 

“In a way.” The figure said, in that voice which Sansa had almost forgotten. “I am Mother to all, Sansa Stark.”

Sansa dropped to her knees before the goddess, terrified that she might have done something to offend her already. 

The Mother let out a light laugh, _mother’s_ laugh, and this time a year did fall, for until she heard it, Sansa had forgotten what her mother’s laugh had sounded like. 

“I have a task for you, Sansa, just as my siblings have a task for your own siblings.” The Mother said in a voice that rang with command, “A task of great importance, one which if you complete, should save the life of millions.”

Sansa did not have a choice, but even if she had done her answer would have been the same.

She lifted her chin, “Tell me what I must do.”

* * *

She woke up with a gasp, comfortably warm for this first time in years. There was a sense of safety upon the air, and she could not work out why she felt so safe, why she felt as safe as she had before Robert Baratheon died.

And then it hit her. Then she remembered.

She felt as safe as she had last been with her parents, because she was. They were alive, and well, and breathing, and likely still asleep in their shared bed if the dark outside her window was anything to go by.

She was safe. 

She was dead and the champion of a god, but she was safe. For she knew that as long as father and mother were alive and they were all together then she was as safe as she would ever be. 

And if what The Mother said was true and accurate, and she highly doubted that it was not, then Sansa was not alone either. Her siblings had been sent back as well, each one to do a different one of the Seven’s work.

She would get to see Robb again, and Jon and Arya and Bran and Theon. And Rickon, for all she could still see his face before her eyes, half rotted and yet so preserved by the cold he was recognisable. Little, baby Rickon, the one who had pierced her heart with the blade they had set on his tomb to guard his spirit from harm.

She would get to feel her mother’s arms wrapped around her again, feel the warmth of her father’s smile. She would get to see them again, to replace the horrors her mind had conjured upon hearing of her mother’s death, and the image of her father’s rotting head which Joffrey had forced her to stare at to try and make her scream. 

She could see Jeyne again, and Jory, Ser Rodrick and Septa Mordane. All the people who had died defending her and her family, they were still alive. And maybe, if Sansa didn’t manage to fuck it up, they might stay alive this time. 

There was a knock on her door, a hurried knock, one which almost caused the frame to rattle. It was the sort of knock which Sansa vaguely remembered, the one which Robb would always use when he had some mischief he wanted to convince the rest of them into participating in.

She slid from her bedcovers, heart in her throat as she rushed to the door. She did not know how she would react when she saw Robb again, when she saw that face that she so loved. A face she had last seen in the grounds of Winterfell, snowflakes melting in his hair. A face she had seen in her nightmares, served to her at Joffrey’s wedding banquet as he had once promised. 

Sansa threw open her door, not even bothering to throw a robe over her sleep shift, so anxious was she too see her brother again; but when his grinning face was revealed to her Sansa did the strangest thing. 

Her hand reached out and slapped him, shocking the both of them with the force of it. Sansa had not realised quite how much anger she had still been holding over Robb not trading the Kingslayer for her, over him dying and leaving her alone and a prisoner. And Robb had obviously not expected to be greeted that way, he looked as if he had been expecting a hug or a shout of joy instead of the slap he had received. 

Sansa looked at her hand, looked at the red imprint on Robb’s face and did the only logical thing:

Sansa burst into tears. 

* * *

  
Once Robb had managed to calm her down, to dry her tears and receive the hug he so obviously wanted from her; he had told her that they were all conveening in his room, it being the largest of their chambers. She had apparently been the last to wake, that Rickon and Arya had come just before her, Jon and Bran awaking shortly after Robb himself. There was no mention of Theon though, and Sansa wondered if perhaps he had not been sent back, for all that the Mother had said he would be. 

She wondered what that meant, the order in which they had awoken. Whether it was the order in which they had died, or whether there truly was no reason for the order at all. After all, Sansa knew that Arya and Bran and Jon had all been alive when she entered the crypts, that they were all better armed and guarded than she was. 

She was so caught up in her thoughts that she had not truly registered where they would be going, of the chamber she would be required to enter. 

Robb’s chambers. The chambers which Ramsay had taken as his own, the chambers he had used for their wedding night.

She started to tremble at the thought of seeing those walls again, walls she had managed to avoid as Lady of Winterfell, assigning them to Bran when he returned while she had taken the rooms that had belonged to Mother. 

But, Sansa reflected as she took a steadying breath, she could withstand anything of it let her see her siblings again. 

Jon accosted her as soon as she walked in, picking her up in a hug as strong as the one that had greeted her when she first arrived in Castle Black and saw him for the first time in years. 

“I’m so sorry.” He murmured into her hair, “We should have known better. Should have placed you somewhere else. Should have given you weapons at least so you might have defended yourselves.”

Sansa pulled away and smiled sadly, “It’s alright, none of us thought it through. And besides, I doubt that a knife would have protected me much against the swords the wights wielded.”

Jon winced, “Do- do you remember who it was? The wight that killed you I mean. We can always go and seal his tomb now, to prevent at least one death.”

Sansa’s eyes darted past Jon to where the rest of their siblings waited, “I’m afraid that would not help for the wight that killed me. They died quite a bit later than anyone currently in the crypts.”

There was a sharp intake of breath behind her, and Robb put his hand on her shoulder. Sansa turned to face him, and was shocked to see that his eyes were wet.

“I- It was- Was it-” Robb cut himself off and covered his mouth. He had to take a deep, shuddering breath before he could continue, “Was it me?”

Sansa shook her head and smiled a wet smile, “No. We- we never managed to recover your bones.”

A strange mixture of relief and insult and sorrow crossed Robb’s face as he nodded and let her turn back to the rest of their siblings. 

The sight of Rickon made Sansa want to start crying again, her baby brother who should still have been lively and boisterous the way he was in her memories, but who instead sat upon the rug by Robb’s hearth, his expression wary and guarded. 

His cheeks were chubby with baby fat, still containing the roundness of a toddler; and yet all Sansa could see was his cheeks hollowed with hunger and rot and death. His blue eyes made her flinch, they were no longer the ungodly blue of the Night’s King, but were now too old for his face.

There was little recognition in his face as he looked at his family. Little recognition as he saw Robb and Arya; and likely when he saw Mother and Father as well. He did not recognise Sansa either, but there was a sadness there which made her wonder what Ramsay had told him about her. Jon though, Jon he reached for, the same way Jon had said he had reached for him as he raced to save their baby brother from Ramsay’s arrows. 

She did start to cry once more when she saw Bran, Bran _standing_ at the foot of the bed. A grin split his face, and he looked so very happy as he danced from foot to foot while speaking to Arya. He looked like _Bran_ again, not the lifeless husk that had returned from Beyond-the-Wall.

He and Arya turned as one, in sync again already the way they had been before the King had visited. Many visitors had asked Mother and Father whether Bran and Arya were twins once upon a time, back when they had run around Winterfell constantly under each other’s feet.

“Sansa!” Bran lit up in a way that she hadn’t seen since his excitement the day the royal family arrived. Arya closely echoed him, and a wide, wet smile crossed Sansa’s face.

They looked like they wanted to run over to her; but with Jon on one side and Robb the other there was no way for them to actually reach her.

Instead she was escorted to the long padded bench that Robb kept by the fire, and sat between the two of them. Between the brother that had been her defending knight as a child; and the brother that had taken the role of her avenging knight as an adult. 

Rickon clambered onto Jon’s lap, and Bran curled against his legs; while Arya curled against Robb’s. It was nice to be surrounded on all side by her siblings; and rather than peter off, Sansa’s tears only fell faster. 

Arya frowned at her and patted at the pockets of the robe she was wearing; a robe Sansa vaguely remembered their mother giving Arya for her nameday. The patting and frowning only stopped when she triumphantly produced a slightly grubby handkerchief. It was one of the many which Mother and their septa used to stuff in all of Arya’s pockets in the hope of her using them instead of her sleeve. 

She presented it to Sansa; with a stern admonishment to wipe her eyes. 

It was an instruction that Sansa was happy to follow, especially when it was said so tenderly and in the exact tone that Mother always used. 

She wiped away her tears and folded the kerchief to hand back to Arya and savoured the feel of her siblings around her. The feel of her _alive_ siblings around her. 

“What- what happened to you all?” Robb asked after a few moments, sounding so very sad. 

“I was held hostage by a family of monsters, then I trusted one; married another; and was only freed from them with a lot of help.” Sansa said simply; slightly horrified by how easily she could sum up her torments. 

“I fought and won; fought and lost; was killed by my own men; and then came back.” Jon said, in the same tone as Sansa had.

It was strange to think of their lives; the lives that they had lived and yet had not yet happened. Lives that would never happen now.

Robb’s face scrunched up, and somehow he looked even sadder than he had sounded. He didn’t even seem to realise that the others had not spoken, nor that Jon and Sansa had not gone into any detail. Sansa wondered if that perhaps was for the best, if whether hearing the ways they had hurt and the ways he had been unable to protect them would break their already fragile seeming brother.

(And it was strange to think that she was older than him; that she had lived more years than he had.)

She wanted to say something comforting, wanted to reassure him that it was not as bad as he was surely imagining. Except it probably _was_. 

Sansa placed a hand upon his arm and was just about to say something comforting - if not necessarily true - when a familiar sound reached through her ears. 

A scream rang through the halls, a scream Sansa knew all too well. It was a scream that haunted her nightmares; one that sent her straight back to being in Ramsay’s clutches.

It was Theon’s scream.

Sansa barely thought before she reacted. She darted under Robb’s arm, around Jon, and nearly leapt over Arya so that she could race to his side. She knew exactly the nightmare he would be trapped in, the same nightmare he often became trapped in, just as she knew that for him to wake up with anyone other than her or Yara near would only cause him distress.

She ignored her siblings’ calls, ignored the confused looks of the maids that she ran past, even ignored the sight of mother’s door opening so that she could reach his side quickly.

The scream echoed again, just as Sansa reached the door to Theon’s room; the same room in which she had stayed in the days leading up to her marriage to Ramsay. 

(An intentional cruelty undoubtedly; just like her marriage chamber being her childhood bedchamber.)

Theon was curled up in the corner of his room, his hands clutching at his face and clawing at his ears. He was rocking back and forth, and muttering under his breath a constant litany of rhymes.

“Reek… freak… meek… weak.” He sobbed, “Must remember your name… you have to remember your name.”

Sansa carefully crossed the room and knelt before him. She gently took his hands in her own and just cradled them in her lap.

“Theon.” She called softly, “Theon, you are safe. You’re here with me, here with Sansa. Ramsay isn’t here. You are safe.”

It took a few moments but slowly his eyes were able to focus on her, a wild sort of desperation and hope swirling within. 

“Sansa? Sansa, we flew?”

Sansa nodded, and swallowed back the sobs that wanted to escape, “We did.” She confirmed gently, “You saved me, and then you saved Yara, and then you came back to fight for Winterfell.”

His eyes seemed to focus a little more, something sharp forming within them, “Sansa,” He said slowly, “I died. I died defending Bran, and then a man with an ever shifting face spoke to me. Why are you here? Did you live a long life?”

She smiled sadly, “I died too Theon. The Mother spoke to me, she was so kind. But I died in the crypts; Rickon’s blade in my heart.”

Theon let out a keening sob and scrabbled his hands against her, “You were supposed to be _safe._ You were supposed to _live._ ”

Sansa leaned forwards and placed her forehead against Theon’s, a hand reaching up to gently stroke his pale cheek, “I know, dear heart, I know.”

She could have stayed there quite happily for a while, just comforting Theon and being comforted in return, but it was not to be. Not when Robb rushed into the room with all the subtlety of a dragon.

“Sansa, get away from the traitor!”


	2. Robb

Robb still had the screams of his mother ringing in his ears when he opened his eyes. Still had the sounds of his friends’ deaths and the sight of their blood seared into his mind. Still had the terrified howls of his wolf and the phantom pain of crossbow bolts in his chest on top of the pain of the arrows which had feathered him.

He hadn’t expected to open his eyes, hadn’t expected to see anything more in his life after Roose Bolton’s knife had plunged into his heart. 

And yet his eyes had opened to a warm light, a light akin to the comforting glow of a hearth after a day outside in the snow.

To his shame he nearly wept at the sight that awaited him, the face that had appeared before him. It was a face he had longed to see for such a very long time, one he had often wished to turn to when having to make decisions.

“Father-“ He stepped forwards, hand outstretched as if to reach him, and had a moment of sorrow that his mother was not there to see father as well. Robb knew how much she had missed him.

“I am, and I am not.” The man with father’s face said, his soft voice containing an undercurrent of pure power, “I am the Father to all, and I have a task for you Robb Stark, just as my compatriots have a task for your family.”

A shiver ran down Robb’s spine as he looked at the god, as his eyes met the Father’s eyes and took in the raw power that they contained. 

“And what task might that be?”

“After your death the world fell to blood, and fire, and ice. It was a rare moment when screams did not rend the air, and tears did not fall. This was not the visage we imagined for the world, for the people who we watch over.” The Father paused and sighed, “We would have you stop such a fate from occurring.” 

Robb was struck dumb, and his breath started to come in short bursts as panic filled his veins. He could not save anything, could not save anyone. He was a failure, to himself and his armies and the siblings he had not managed to save. 

“What use would I be?” He finally choked out, as he stared desperately at the Father, hoping for answers. 

“You are still needed, Robb Stark.” The Father said, his voice achingly kind, “Your siblings will need your help if you are all to succeed”

Robb swallowed drily, “But I failed. I was murdered, along with my mother and my men at my own uncle’s wedding. What use will I be to them?”

The Father clapped a hand on Robb’s shoulder, the same warm grip which Robb’s own father had always used, “You are still the Young Wolf, still the man that sent men with far more experience of battle running with their tails between their legs. You were only brought down by a series of unfortunate circumstances and the foulest of betrayals.”

The words and touch were comforting, as comforting as the reassurances that father had always offered Robb while he was growing up. 

“Very well,” Robb said, straightening his shoulders and feeling a burst of courage flow through his veins, “What must I do if we are to succeed?”

* * *

Robb had never thought that Sansa; his sweet little sister who loved songs, and flowers, and pretty dresses; would ever be terrifying, and yet he found himself taking an involuntary step backwards as she stepped between him and Theon.

Her teeth were not barred, her hands were not curled into claws, and yet Robb could not shake the sense he was looking at a wolf. A wolf who would tear his throat out if he dared to try and touch the one she was protecting. 

And yet Robb still did not understand why she was putting that energy into defending the Turncloak. 

Theon had _burned_ Winterfell. He had _murdered_ Bran and Rickon. Had _beheaded_ Ser Rodrick. He was a traitor and turncloak and did not deserve the chance to live to betray them again.

“If you so much as dare to harm a hair on Theon’s head I will make you wish that you had never been sent back.” Sansa hissed at him.

Robb reared back, hurt and offence pooling in his gut at his sister choosing a traitor over her own brother. 

“You would choose him over me?” He asked softly, true hurt coating every word. 

Sansa’s face softened slightly, “I would prefer not to have to choose at all.”

That was no answer at all, and yet at the same time it was. Sansa was saying that she would prefer not to have to take sides, that she could not choose between her own brother and the man who had burnt their home. 

And that in itself was her choice.

Theon let out a whimper, and started to rock again, and Robb could do nothing but watch as Sansa tended to him with a gentleness he last remembered seeing her use while hand feeding Lady. 

“Theon, sweetling, look at me.” Sansa coaxed, “Ramsay isn’t here anymore, he’s gone Theon, you are safe.”

Theon let out a whimper of pure terror, “But he _isn’t._ He’s alive. He’s in the Dreadfort at this very moment, and _what if he came back with us_?”

Robb did not know who this ‘Ramsay’ was, but he had never seen such an expression of terror on Theon’s face before, not even before their first battle or when Theon had first arrived in Winterfell. To Robb’s utter horror, the same expression was mirrored on his little sister’s face. 

“Well,” Sansa said in the same tone that Robb had heard Mother use before, one that wavered only slightly, “You saved me from Ramsay once before, Theon, you can do it again if it becomes necessary.”

A knock on the door startled them all, the loud banging reverberating around the room.

“Sansa? Theon? Robb? Is everything alright?” Father called through the door, concern readily apparent in his voice. “We heard the screaming.”

Panic gripped Robb, they couldn’t let Father come in, he would take one look at Theon and immediately demand to know what had happened. And Robb knew he wasn’t a good enough liar to sound believable.

He met Sansa’s eyes, aware of how obvious his panic was and yet not caring enough to hide it. Sansa would not judge him for that, for all she might wish to judge him for his other life choices. 

“I fed the last person to hurt Theon to his own dogs.” Sansa hissed at him, “Keep watch over him and don’t let him slip back into a panic while I deal with father or you’ll meet a similar fate.”

Robb did not believe that his sister truly meant such a threat, but he also could not picture her feeding a man to his own dogs either. He nodded mutely, tongue in his throat, and moved to take her place crouched next to a trembling Theon.

Sansa shot him one last warning glare, before her face smoothed out into an expression of childish worry and she exited the room, leaving the door ever so slightly open so they could hear what was going on.

“Sansa?” Their father sounded very concerned, “Is everything alright? We heard screaming.”

“Theon had a nightmare, father.” Sansa lied easily, “Robb’s with him now. But, Father, Theon said his nightmare was- was about _Ice_. Why would Theon be scared of Ice, Father?”

Robb found himself admiring her sheer audacity. Theon’s status as a hostage had been danced around a lot during their childhood, enough so that he still wasn’t sure of Bran or Rickon or even Arya had understood Theon’s true place in their household.

“After all,” Sansa pushed, not giving their Father any time to react, “Theon is your ward, like you were with Lord Arryn, and I’m sure _you_ weren’t scared of his sword.”

Robb could picture how she was looking at Father, her eyes as big and blue as she could make them. It was a devastatingly effective look, if he remembered correctly, one that had enabled her to wrap many people around her fingers before.

Theon stiffened in the corner, his hands slowly reached up as if he wished to claw at his face again. It was a movement that drew Robb’s attention, one that reignited the kernel of affection that had never truly died in Robb’s heart.

“Hey,” He said softly, taking Theon’s hands on a gentle grip, “You’re safe here. You have all of us to protect you.” 

Theon whimpered, and peered up at Robb with eyes that seemed too big for his face, “I should have died with you.”

His words were horrifyingly sincere, as though he truly and deeply believed them. It was enough to make Robb thaw even more, his anger over Theon’s betrayal almost fully gone. 

He just couldn’t stay angry at someone who had so obviously paid for any mistake they had made.

“But if you had died by my side then who would have helped Sansa?” Robb asked gently, “She wouldn’t have reached Jon without you.” 

Theon shivered and sobbed and clung to Robb’s hands. 

“You saved Sansa,” Robb said again, “You helped my sister in a way that I could not, and it is for that reason that I am glad you did not die by my side, Theon Greyjoy.”

Tears ran down Theon’s cheeks and he sobbed wetly, “She wouldn’t have needed saving if not for me though. If I hadn’t pretended to kill Bran and Rickon then maybe she wouldn’t have had to marry a monster to reclaim her home.”

Robb felt like he had been caught under a cavalry charge at that revelation. That Theon had not killed his brothers was welcome news indeed, and with it came the dissipation of the last bit of anger and hate and hurt that Robb felt towards the man who had once been almost a brother to him, the man who had been his best friend.

“You didn’t kill them?” He whispered hoarsely, unsure whether he had heard Theon correctly.

Theon nodded, “I killed two farm boys instead. Burned their bodies. It was Master’s idea.”

Robb wanted to weep in relief, his brothers had not been killed in their own home, butchered by a man whom Robb had called a friend. 

“I deserved everything that Master did to me.” Theon continued softly, “I killed children, and for that I deserved to be punished.”

Robb didn’t know what to say to that, after all he had executed an ally for the same crime. Instead he continued to hold Theon’s hands, and offer what comfort he could while Sansa continued to talk rings around their father. 

* * *

Robb did not know how long it took for Sansa to convince their mother and father to let them be, he was too focused on keeping Theon’s hands away from his face and keeping him calm. 

They had sat in the corner and waited for Sansa to be done, and it was only after she had re-entered the room that Theon had made any movement. He had risen then, onto trembling feet, and had gratefully folded into Sansa’s arms, seeking a strength from her which Robb had not known his sister had possessed before they had all awoken.

“Come on Theon, we are all in Robb’s chambers.” Sansa said as gently as if she was speaking to a scared animal or small child, “It’ll be nice to see everyone again, won’t it?”

Theon stumbled a step backwards, so that he was no longer completely relying on Sansa to remain standing. His eyes were still wide with fear, but his shoulders seemed to straighten and he started to project a fragile aura of confidence. 

Robb was suddenly struck by how strong his siblings and Theon must have been to have survived what they had gone through, to have survived and even started to heal and find one another again. 

In the same moment he was struck by the strangest sense of loneliness, his family had gone on without him, had experienced events that he never would, and seen horrors that Robb likely would never be able to truly understand. But he could still empathise with them, could still support them and help them heal.

The Father himself had said that Robb was needed, even though he had not been touched by magic in quite the same way that the others had. Robb was an older brother, the one who had always been the knight in the games as children, the one who had started a war to return his family to his side; his role was to protect his family and ensure that justice was meted out.

“Come.” He said softly, his turbulent mind quieted with thoughts of his purpose. “The others will be wondering where we are, and I think it’s best to agree a story before any other run-ins with Father and Mother.”

Sansa eyed him with suspicion but nodded, and together they somehow managed to get a stumbling Theon down the corridor and to Robb’s chambers. 

The way Theon walked was strange indeed, it was as though he was trying to compensate for lost balance, but it was a compensation he no longer needed, and instead resulted in him stumbling and lurching from foot to foot.

He deposited Theon on a chair of his own, as far from Bran and Rickon as Robb could wrangle. Theon might not have killed them in their last life, but he had still thought to, had still traumatised them by stealing their home away and inviting in invaders. 

Sansa could not seem to decide who she wished to be nearest to, choosing instead to pace restlessly in the centre of the room. She kept wringing her hands before her, and darting her eyes between them as if she was scared that to look away might make everyone disappear. 

On his own part Robb perched on the edge of his chair, ready to lurch to his feet at any moment to defend or comfort of or when it was needed. The same adrenaline that filled his veins before battle flowed, so alert was he for any signs of distress on their features. 

“We can’t be the only ones to have ever been sent back.” Arya finally said, Robb’s pen knife twisting in her hands, appearing and reappearing with quick, darting movements. “This must have happened before, the only question is, who might know of their stories?” 

Arya scared Robb a little, she was so different to the wide smiling and wild little sister that he remembered. And yet she still had retained so many mannerisms that were purely _Arya_ there was no mistaking who she really was. 

“What about Old Nan?” Jon asked quietly, Rickon still clinging to his side with a vicious grip, “If anyone knows the stories of this happening before it will be her.”

It was a good idea, Old Nan knew every story there was, ones she recounted with a well worn familiarity like they were paths her mind often trod.

“What happened to Old Nan?” Arya asked, just as quietly, her gaze distant, “She wasn’t at Winterfell when I returned home.”

They all looked between them, the question laying heavily upon the air.

Theon did not meet any of their eyes. “She was alive when I lost the boys, alive right up until I was knocked out and- and Mas- and Ramsay burned the keep. After that-“ He shrugged, “After that who knows?”

Robb wanted to punch something, wanted to hit someone. He wanted to take his anger out on Theon, he wanted to wrap Theon up in his arms and never let him go again. 

Sansa tilted her chin up slightly, and although her gaze rested upon them all her vision was somewhere else, somewhere darker.

“Ramsay told me. He used it to goad me into reacting. Old Nan, and Beth Cassel, all of them.” A single tear trickled down her cheek, her voice as dull and unemotional as if she was reciting a list of dates in a lesson, “He gave Old Nan the same fate as Lady Hornwood. He hunted Beth and the maids and named a dog after her.”

Robb could not help himself from moving to his baby sister, could not keep himself from wrapping her up in his arms and holding her close. He needed to remind himself that this was real, that they were all alive and that none of these terrible things had happened yet. 

He felt, more than heard, Sansa let out a deep sob. Her hands twisted in the soft wool of his tunic, and he could feel as more tears fell from her eyes to soak through his clothes. He only held her tighter, anchoring her in the present just as much as she was anchoring him.

“Ramsay Snow will never lay a finger on you again.” Robb vowed, “He won’t be allowed to hurt anyone ever again, we can stop him.” 

He met Theon’s gaze, the awe in his eyes almost painful to behold. 

“You- you would do that? You would kill him?” Theon asked, the same awe in his voice as was in his eyes, “You would keep him from- from flaying and hunting and butchering?”

“Of course we will, stupid.” Arya said with a roll of her eyes, “We won’t just let him hurt you again. Ramsay Snow is going to die just as painfully as he did when he was eaten by his own dogs.”

“Aye, I want the chance to break his nose again though.” Jon said grimly, “I don’t think I savoured it enough last time.” 

Robb couldn’t believe he was _jealous_ over Jon getting to break someone’s nose, and especially that his jealousy wasn’t over _Joffrey’s_ nose being broken. 

Not that he no longer wanted to break Joffrey’s nose of course, he was just adding people to his list now.

Arya stood abruptly and crossed to a shaking Theon. She pulled him into her arms, in a brusque movement that nonetheless had him collapse into her hold.

Over the top of Sansa’s head Robb met Jon and Arya’s gaze. A silent understanding passed between them: they might have many enemies to dispose of on their quest to save their family, but Ramsay Snow was at the top of their list. 

He would be the first to die. 


	3. Theon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should preface this chapter by saying that I love Ned, he just doesn’t come off in the best light in the chapter due to some Theon POV related (and totally legitimate) reasons.

Death and Theon had an unusually close relationship for one who was not a condemned man or an assassin. 

It had stalked his footsteps, playing hide and seek with him since he was but a child of eight years. It’s presence ebbed and flowed like the tides until it finally caught him in the Godswood. 

It had almost been welcome by that point. Theon had been constantly in pain, constantly tormented by the memories of his past, and if it wasn’t for the people he was leaving behind he might have greeted death with open arms and a smile.

He had expected to be greeted by the Drowned God, a figure which in his mind had always looked somewhat like his father only _more_. What he had not expected to be greeted by was the wickedly grinning face of Ramsay Bolton.

“Hello Theon.” He crooned, and some instinct that Theon had fought to suppress forces him to his knees before the man he had once called ‘Master’.

He peered up through his eyelashes at his tormentor, and tried to summon every last morsel of the courage that had allowed him to save Sansa, to save Yara, to try and save Bran.

“You are dead.” He announced, “You cannot hurt me, or anyone else now.”

Master- no, _Ramsay_ \- laughed at him, and slowly, like some foul thing from a nightmare, his face started to shift and bubble until Theon found himself looking at a man that he would never willingly kneel before.

“Is that any way to speak to a god?” Eddard Stark said, his face filled with as much disappointment and distance as it always did when he had looked at Theon. “Is that how you were raised?”

“You are not my god.” Theon asserted, climbing to his feet and staring Eddard Stark in the eye, “You are not the Drowned God and these are not his Halls. I owe you nothing, no matter which guise you might take.”

Eddard Stark frowned, a frown that made Theon feel all of ten years old again, being scolded for pushing stable boys in the mud and ice after they had mocked his heritage.

“I am the Smith.” He said ominously, “And you, Theon Greyjoy, have been chosen for a task.”

His face started to bubble and shift again, and this time it truly was something out of Theon’s nightmares, as Eddard Stark’s face twisted into Balon Greyjoy’s features.

“You will be returned,” His father’s face croaked, “To a time where you might best cause change to happen. And you will not be alone, with you shall be those who might help, the other champions of my siblings.”

Theon could do little but watch and listen as his father spoke, as that face which was both familiar and devastatingly unfamiliar creased into a cruel smile.

“Perhaps you might finally get the chance to apologise to the one who you betrayed first. Perhaps you can finally apologise to the one you helped crown king.”

The Smith started to laugh, a terrible mix of Balon’s cackle, and Ramsay’s giggle, and Eddard’s solemn boom. It was a laugh which made Theon feel small and worthless, a laugh that felt aimed at him.

It was a laugh that echoed in the darkness around Theon as the Smith started to fade away, slowly becoming less and less solid before Theon’s eyes. 

“Wait!” Theon called, finally finding his voice again, “Why these people? Why did you take these faces to speak to me?”

He did not understand the link between the three, not really. The only link he could possibly think of was that all three men had appeared in his nightmares at some point, but that seemed nonsensical and cruel, even for a god. 

“I took the shape of the ones who have shaped you, Theon Greyjoy.” The Smith said, it’s face a terrifying amalgamation of Eddard and Balon and Ramsay. “Each face I took was one which belonged to someone who molded you, formed you. These faces live on in _you_ , Theon Greyjoy, these faces _are_ you.”

That was a much worse reason than Theon had thought, one which made him wish he had never asked. 

(And yet a tiny part of him raged that his mother, that Yara, had not been included, for surely they had had a role in shaping him, especially when it was their tenets and approval that he strove towards. Surely they had played a greater role in shaping him than any other?) 

* * *

Theon had often been left with the younger Starks while they were growing up, Lady Catelyn had trusted him to an extent to keep her brood out of trouble and from causing untold mischief. He had resented it once, resented being used as a nurse maid but it served their purpose now. 

No one would question him shepherding Arya, Bran and Rickon to Old Nan, the only thing they might question was the lack of animosity between him and Jon.

And even that likely wasn’t different enough to be noticed. They both had periods of tolerating each other, and of despising each other in turn and most of Winterfell had just gone with it.

(Not Robb though, he’d always tried to make them make friends again.)

The nursery was as warm as it had always been, a warmth that felt truly decadent after the cold of Winterfell under the Boltons’ rule. 

It was as though some muscle memory had come to life as his charges darted to their usual places at Old Nan’s feet, their faces turned up to her expectantly. 

“Do you have any stories about time travellers, Nan?” Bran asked, with all the subtlety of a child.

Theon settled into the window seat, the one which would allow him to see the rest of the room and it’s occupants easily. 

“Time travellers?” Old Nan let out a throaty cackle, “I think I might have a tale or two about them, yes. Let me think for a minute, my dears.”

She closed her eyes, hummed and rocked in her chair, once, twice, thrice.

There was a familiarity to it that nearly caused tears to spring into Theon’s eyes, for it was how Old Nan always responded to a story request, no matter how many times she had been asked for it before.

Even Rickon seemed lulled by the familiarity of it, some long dormant memory of his activating at the sights and sounds of Old Nan in the nursery. 

“Well,” Old Nan finally said, her eyes reopening and her chair coming to a halt, “It is not a story I have told in quite some time, are you sure you still wish to hear it?”

Bran nodded eagerly and Arya leaned forwards on her hands. 

“Please!” They chorused, almost seeming like their physical ages for a moment. 

Old Nan chuckled, “Very well. Back before the Targaryens ever looked at our shores, back before even Winterfell was built there were seven siblings, six sisters and one brother. The sisters' names are lost to time, but the brother, he was called Brandon.”

Arya let out a gasp and a little wiggle, more animated while listening to the story than she had been for a long time.

“When the eldest sister reached the age at which her father was starting to look for a betrothed for her, she and her siblings awoke one morning claiming to have seen a world covered in ice, a world in which the dead roamed freely and where even young maidens were hunted for sport.

“They spoke of these horrors with such great conviction, and spoke of those who had sent them back. They spoke of gods which were mostly unknown in the North at that time: The Seven.”

Theon struggled to bite back his gasp at those fateful words, at the knowledge that this had happened before. 

“The seven siblings rallied their people, and those of the other kingdoms as well, and using a combination of old magic and the labour of men and giants alike they built a great wall. Stonemasons from the Vale, carpenters from the North, metalworkers from the West, with materials brought by longship from as far as Dorne and the Iron Islands. It was a wall built by a whole continent, and one for which there could only be one name: The Wall.” Old Nan stopped her rocking so she could focus fully on them, “It was not easy, getting so many to work together, and it took a long time. The eldest sister, she was the first to make an alliance, she bound herself in marriage to the Storm King, and in exchange for their marriage and a castle built by her brother, the Storm King promised his men to their project. The second sister, she forged an alliance with the Westerlands, marrying their King and gaining their skilled metalworkers. And so on, and so on, until it was the two youngest who remained in the North: Brandon and the last sister.”

“What happened then?” Arya leant forwards even more, her eyes wider than Theon had ever seen them, “What did Brandon and the last sister do?”

Old Nan smiled slowly, “Brandon relied on his sisters, and found himself adrift without their guidance, leaning more and more upon the youngest sister, the one who it is said was blessed by the Stranger.”

Theon could not keep his eyes from darting to Arya at that, they had not really discussed which of the Seven had blessed them, but it was almost obvious for some of them.

“The youngest sister, she did not believe that she was as clever or beautiful as her older sisters, and perhaps she was not, that has been lost to time, but she did have a heart full of mercy and love for every living creature.” Old Nan’s smile faded into a look of sorrow, “The magic of the Wall needed one last thing before it would work as Brandon forsaw it: it needed the warmth of a still beating heart.”

Rickon let out a gasp of horror and clung to Bran like he would a patchwork animal, “No!”

“Yes.” Old Nan said gravely, “A sacrifice that Brandon was loath to ask anyone to make, let alone the last sister left by his side. His sister knew this though, and she was not one to let people suffer when she might alleviate such suffering. She snuck out in the middle of the night and went to each of her sisters’ husbands with her request. And every one, every one but the final one, King Theon of the Iron Islands refused her. He was the husband of the sister who had been closest to her, and he knew his decision would cause his beloved wife pain. And yet he also knew the troubles of making difficult decisions and sacrifices while at sea.”

Theon startled a little to hear his name, to hear that an Ironborn had held his name before. His mother had said that he was named after a figure from history and legend, but he had always assumed it was Theon ‘The Hungry Wolf’ Stark for whom he had been named.

“He had her write a letter to her siblings, detailing her decision and her love for them all. Then, under the light of a new moon, he helped her fulfill her quest. His blade carved into her chest, his knife wickedly sharp and his every cut precise. With the sister’s final breath she spoke the necessary words, the ones which would send the magic of her life into the Wall itself. And as her blood dripped onto the stones of the Wall, so ice started to climb the stones, encasing it in a protection that no outside magic could pass. Or at least, for as long as someone with the sister’s blood, with Stark blood, lives at the Wall.”

Theon could almost feel a sob welling up at the sorrow of the tale, of what it might mean for their own lives and eventual tale. 

His head was clouded, even as he shepherded Bran and Rickon out of the room so that they might attend their lessons with the Maester, even as he turned to warn Arya that the Septa would be hunting for her at that time near the library. He had no need to though, not when Arya had already vanished. 

He returned to Old Nan, thoughts and possible visions of the future swirling around his head, and jumped when her stick rapped against the floor, dragging his attention back to her in her chair. 

“Now, young Theon,” Old Nan bent forwards, her eyes startlingly clear and sharp, “Are you going to tell me what is going on?”

Theon opened and closed his mouth a few times, before the words erupted from him like a waterfall of self doubt and self recrimination.

And Old Nan listened to every word.

* * *

Sansa’s personal chamber was the safest in Winterfell, at least in Theon’s mind. It had no terrible memories associated with it, for it had been beneath the notice of Mas- of _Ramsay._ It was a safe place, a place that Robb would not intrude on, not without knocking at least. 

It was a place where Theon could press his face into Sansa’s knee and the cradle of her hand and ask for what scant comfort he deserved. 

Theon pressed into Sansa’s hand, unwilling to part from the comfort she offered him. He wanted to ask for more, for a hug and to be enveloped by her taller frame once more. 

But he was taller than Sansa for the moment, and while she was tall for her age she was still far shorter than he was.

He let out a dry sob as he was suddenly hit by everything and everyone he had lost by coming back. Yara, his Sansa, the respect of the Ironborn. He had lost all of it.

Oh he could regain the respect of the Ironborn, he knew what not to do now, and he supposed that he hadn’t really lost Sansa even if she no longer looked and held him as he remembered. But Yara, Yara he had truly lost.

He would never again have the same relationship with his sister that he had once had. He would never again have the complete reassurance of his sister’s presence behind him, knowing that she had and would do anything in her power to protect him, just as he would for her. He wouldn’t have Yara glare her crew into submission for him, or carefully find someone who could make blocks to fit the spaces in his boots where toes should have been so he could safely walk on deck with his poor balance. 

He had lost _his_ Yara, and for all there was still a Yara in this time, she was the one who had not seen him for over a decade, the one who still thought him a snot nosed brat who would waltz in and take everything she had worked for. She was not the one who had disobeyed their father and sailed around a continent to rescue him, not the one who had finished restoring Theon to being Theon after jumping from Winterfell’s walls with Sansa had started it. 

It wasn’t _fair_ that the Starks had been sent back with all their siblings, while Theon had been sent back alone. A keen left his lips at that thought, pained and tragic and containing all the loss he felt. 

There was a soft noise from beside him, and small, gentle arms wrapped around him, encasing him in a hug. 

It was a nice hug, but it wasn’t the hug he wanted, one smelling of brine and leather and _Yara._

He still nestled into it though, more than aware that it was the best he was ever going to get. That at least Sansa would not judge him for crying, not when she had seen him in a much lower place.

“I’ve got you.” Sansa said softly, “You are safe here. I won’t let anyone near you.” 

Theon let out another sob and buried himself further into the hug. 

“I miss Yara.” He confessed quietly, “I miss my sister.”

Sansa’s arms tightened, “Oh, Theon,” She sounded so sad, “I’m so sorry. I hadn’t thought that you were leaving behind Yara. I’m sorry, Theon.”

Her words did little to comfort Theon, if anything they only made him cry harder. He didn’t want Sansa’s sympathy, he wanted _Yara._ And he was never going to have his Yara back again. 

And then a bolt of hatred filled his heart, loathing aimed at himself. He was so ungrateful, resenting what Sansa had regained, resenting the second chance that they had all been offered to make things right again. He should be glad that he had a chance to offer apologies to those he had hurt. He had a chance to make the lives of those he had once caused pain so much better.

But the bitterness still remained, that he was the one who still suffered and lost so much, that the same pattern repeated that had done so since he was eight years old and terrified of the screams and clashing metal outside.

“Theon,” Sansa said tentatively, gently, as though she was speaking to a babe, “Do you know if your mother is still alive?”

Theon shook his head. He was a bad son, a terrible son, that he knew. He did not know whether his mother was alive or dead, whether she still missed him and pined for him the way that Yara had mentioned in one of those long nights aboard her ship on the way to the Dragon Queen in Meereen.

“Would you like me to ask my mother?” She asked, just as gently, “I can make it seem as though I am merely asking about the other Great Houses. And if- if she is alive, then perhaps I can see if I can convince father to let you visit her?”

Another sob, a fierce sob, a hopeful sob, burst from Theon. It was a sob that contained all the pain that he had felt since being ripped from his mother’s arms on the order of a blood stained king by a solemn, grey, man. 

“Please!” He sobbed, “Please, I have not seen her in so long, a nameday letter, it- it is not enough.”

A hot tear dripped onto his head, and Theon was struck by the realisation that Sansa must too be crying. Perhaps she was remembering being apart from her own mother, with the only knowledge of her coming from the rumour mills and gossiping biddies of the court.

“We have never apologised to you,” Sansa wept, “We have never asked your forgiveness for taking you from your mother and sister and culture and thrusting you into a land and people not your own. We do not deserve such a thing, for stealing you from your home, and expecting you to rule a people whose way of life you have all but forgotten.”

She spoke words that Theon had never expected to hear. All his life he had been told he should be grateful to the Starks, that he should be grateful to his captors for raising and educating him and treating him as if he was a foster son instead of a hostage. 

As if he could have ever forgotten that he was a hostage, not when Lord Stark made him carry his sword to executions. The sword which would have been used to take off his own head had his father decided a crown was more important than Theon’s life.

As his father _had_ decided so, with it only being pure luck and chance that Eddard Stark had not found out before his death, and that Robb had not found out until after Theon had already left.

(Not that Theon truly believed Robb would have taken his head.)

His life would be forfeit if Ned Stark ever found out about Balon’s preparations for retaking his crown, and even after everything that Theon had been put through it was still the betrayal that cut deepest.

Although whether it was a sense of betrayal for Balon, or Eddard, or a combination of the both he was not sure.

His life had been at the whims of mad men and men with power for so long that Theon had almost never had a taste of being his own man. And that taste had been cut brutally short with the battle that had killed both he and Sansa.

Theon closed his eyes and tried not to start crying again. Perhaps this time around he would get the chance to live the life he wanted. Perhaps this time he could be his own man. 

Perhaps. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Question: Would you want to see all of the rest of Stark’s meetings with the Seven, or instead just hear about them throughout conversations in later chapters?


	4. Sansa

It was undeniable that there were many things that needed to be done and discussed before they could make any changes. It was also undeniable that none of them had quite any idea of where best to start.

Did they kill their enemies before they could cause them harm? Did they focus on the Wall or the Lannisters or the Dragon Queen? Did they spend time doing those things they wished they had had the chance to do before? 

Sansa had a vague plan, one that might just work, one that contained all the what ifs that she had thought of during her long periods of captivity.

She had to tell her siblings though, and hope that they would agree with her. She had to hope that her kingly brothers deigned to listen to the word of a girl who had been stupid enough to spend most of her life a prisoner. 

“We are killing the Boltons first then.” Jon said, his eyes flitted between her and Theon as though he was concerned the name would harm them. 

“Aye.” Robb agreed, “Best to take them out before they have the chance to hurt us again.” 

They grinned at each other, obviously proud of their well thought out plan. 

“I’m sure that your plan to take heads is all very satisfying,” Arya interjected, causing Sansa to startle at the sound of her own words, “But we have no idea what to do beyond killing the Boltons, and possibly the Freys if we get the time.” 

“I’ve already had some thoughts on that.” Sansa said, seeing her opening, “Last time we didn’t have enough friends to succeed. No armies that would turn for us instead of our enemies.”

Arya’s face twisted in offense, but both Jon and Robb nodded thoughtfully.

“Think of the Tyrells for example, after Renly’s death they could have declared for Robb if a preexisting friendship was there.” Sansa continued, softly but firmly, “Tywin Lannister wouldn’t have won without their help. Their choice won the war for the Lannisters and caused us to lose it.”

Robb let out a considering hum, “So what is it you actually want us to do? Seeing as I’m assuming you already have a plan in place.”

Sansa smiled, pleased that he was asking for her opinion, that he respected her enough to ask for it. “You, brother dear, are going to write to Lord Willas Tyrell. Claim it is an assignment from Father if you wish, claim you wish to know more about other ways of governing, of agriculture, of the Citadel even, but start a correspondence with the Heir to Highgarden.”

She turned to Arya next, “You, sister, are going to write to Lady Brienne. Ask her about whether it is true her father let her train, mention the Mormonts of Bear Island, try and befriend her without letting on that you know her already.”

“I shall write to Lady Margaery Tyrell, as well as Lady Shireen Baratheon. It should not be too strange, for me to have a correspondence of sorts with the other daughters of Grey Houses, especially since it is well known that I am expected to marry in the South and believed that I still want to.” Sansa met each of their eyes in turn, “Lady Margaery at least will be eager to scope out whether I am already betrothed, and what you, Robb, are like. While Lady Shireen is known to be a lonely child, since her mother is incredibly protective of her, so she should be eager for a companion or friend.”

It was a cold way of looking at things, callous in a way that Sansa was not comfortable with, but it was necessary. Dying had put so many things in perspective, and Sansa knew she would do far more terrible things to keep her family safe than manipulate the loneliness of a child.

(It scared her, a little, that she might be treating Shireen Baratheon as she herself was treated by the Tyrells in her last life. It was something she had wept to Theon about for hours, but something she had to do all the same.)

“We also-” Sansa said, ruthlessly suppressing her feelings to continue, “We need to tell Mother and Father.”

Her siblings all held an opinion on that, it seemed. They all started to speak loudly, until the room was filled with a cacophony of noise.

She waited until they had shouted themselves into silence before continuing.

“As it currently stands the only one of us with even a hint of the power needed to make the changes we want is Robb. We need help, and we need Mother and Father’s power behind us.”

To her surprise it was Arya who agreed with her first.

“Sansa’s right. No one listens to children really, we’d have to prove ourselves over and over and even then wouldn’t be believed. We need the backing of the Warden of the North, the King’s best friend. We need the Lady who outsmarted Tyrion Lannister and who would commit treason for her children. We need our parents.”

It did sting to have to admit to needing help again, to needing their parents when Sansa had not had them even available for help for near a decade. But Sansa would not let her pride kill them all, she knew when to ask for help.

And at least her parents’ help would not come with some terrible price like the aid from Littlefinger or the Dragon Queen had.

“But how would we tell them?” Jon asked slowly, “If we try to tell them then they will think us all mad.”

Sansa let her lips curl up into a smile, “We prove it to them. We tell them things that there is no way we could ever possibly know.”

For some reason Jon went as pale as a ghost at those words.

* * *

Since the slap she had bestowed upon him, Sansa had been waiting for Robb to try and speak privately with her. It was why she was not concerned when he appeared in her bedchamber as they were all retiring. 

“I should have protected you.” Robb sat down heavily on her bed, “I should have kept the promise I made over your cradle and kept you safe.”

Sansa did not know what to say to him. There was still the smallest kernel of bitterness in her heart that he had not protected her, that he had chosen to invade the Westerlands instead of the Crownlands.

And yet she could not let her brother punish himself for choices he had made in another world. Not when he was so obviously already punishing himself for it.

“You wouldn’t have been able to protect me.” Sansa said simply, sitting down next to him and leaning into his broad shoulder, “I would have been killed before you even reached the Red Keep had you even made it into Kings Landing.”

Green light. The screams of terrified women and children. The screams of dying men. The sour taste of wine on her tongue. The cruel smile on Cersei’s face.

The terror as she was pinned down and threatened. The stench of wine and anger from a scarred face. The knowledge that she would die if she did not placate her attacker. 

It did not matter who the invading leader had been, if it had been Robb instead of Stannis Baratheon, the result would have been the same. Only, if it had been Robb then Cersei would have had her executed on the walls of Kings Landing rather than risk her falling into his hands.

Robb lifted his head, just enough to meet her eyes, “What do you mean?”

Sweet Robb, sweet innocent Robb. For all he had been a king, a husband, a man grown, he was still so painfully innocent as to the true cruelties of the world.

“During the Blackwater Cersei had a headsman ready. She promised me that she would never let me fall into Stannis Baratheon’s hands, one way or another.” Sansa fought to keep the terror that memories of the Blackwater still evoked from her voice, “She would not have left my life to such an uncertainty had it been you outside the walls. She would have killed me before your very eyes in the hopes that it would make you make a stupid mistake from anger or grief.”

Robb gaped at her, his eyes wetter than he would likely admit. 

“You cannot be telling me the truth,” His face crumpled, “They would not have killed you when you were so valuable a hostage.” 

It was almost painful, just how innocent Robb still was. Her brother had still not seen the darkest side of people, the war he had fought had been akin to the stories of glorious battle that they had grown up with. The most terrible thing that had happened to him had been the betrayal that had caused his death.

Sansa smiled sadly, “They would have killed me, and only if you were lucky would they have let you have my bones to bury.”

Her big brother reached over so he could pull her against his chest, into the safe cradle of his arms. 

“I will not let you be taken hostage again. Not by the Lannisters. Not by the Boltons. This I promise you.”

Sansa buried her face in his warmth and wished that she could believe him. 

* * *

Sansa took a deep breath before knocking on the door to Father’s office. There was still time to change their minds, still time to turn around and endeavour to do this without their parents’ aid.

But that would take so much longer and would leave them open to attack.

Jon, sweet Jon who always acted quicker than he thought, must have sensed her hesitation and wavering mind for he nudged her gently aside so he could knock sharply on the door. 

Their father’s weary voice echoed for them to enter, he like as not expected Jory, or Ser Rodrick, or perhaps just Robb and Jon. 

His eyebrows shot up at the sight of them all, and a flash of panic took a hold of his features. 

“Is- Is everything alright? What’s happened?” Father shot to his feet behind his desk, ready to rush to wherever they said there was trouble.

“It’s fine Father.” Robb said, when it was apparent that no one else was going to say anything. “We- we need to speak to you and Mother.”

Father slowly sat back down, “Your mother? Very well, I shall send for her. Would you mind if we moved to the family solar? Only I am unsure whether I can have enough chairs brought in here for you all.”

There was enough room for chairs, enough room for ten to sleep as well if there was the need. This Sansa knew from experience and taking in the Smallfolk in the months after Ramsay’s death. 

But if Father wanted them to relocate to the family solar, Sansa was not going to complain. Not when it would offer her the chance to sit close enough to one of her siblings to draw upon their strength. 

They waited quietly for mother to arrive, Rickon clinging to Jon as he had done when they first awoke. Sansa did not know everything that went on in her baby brother’s mind but she knew that he was nervous about being alone with the parents who he believed had abandoned him. 

Mother and Father both had the same pinched expressions of worry on their faces, and while Mother looked like she wanted to take Rickon from Jon she contented herself with sitting as close to Father as she could instead. 

“What was it you wanted to talk to us about?” Father finally said, concern etched into every part of his being.

“We -” Sansa started and then stopped, she could not think of a way to phrase what had happened to them without sounding mad. 

“It’s -” Evidently Robb had the same problem as her, “There -” 

“Everyone died.” Arya snapped, “We all died, one after another, Father first, then Mother and Robb, on and on in a cascade until Westeros was in ashes and we were all dead.” 

Mother blanched, and spoke with a low, outraged intensity, “If this is your idea of a joke then it is not funny at all.” 

“The Seven who are One sent us back.” Bran said dreamily, “To keep the land from burning and the dead from marching.” 

“You need to stop this nonsense now.” Father said, and Sansa felt a sort of hopelessness at their lack of belief. 

She had anticipated it of course, she would hardly have believed it herself if she was not living through it. But, how to make them believe? How could they convince them of the things they had seen and done?

“The Ladies of the Court look upon you with saccharine smiles, their teeth dripping a venom more deadly than any you might find in the Dornish Sands. For them it is rumours and scandal that are the currency, and yet if one does not fit in with how they present themselves it is easy for one to become their next object of ridicule.” Sansa said, her voice far calmer than she felt, “But they are not the worst of it, the worst is the constant smell of shit upon their air, choked out only by the heavy perfume worn by the courtiers. It is rare to go a day without a headache, these scents are so strong.”

Robb took up her cause next, “The Riverlands are mile upon mile of lush green fields, beautiful and pristine until they are trampled into dirt by the boots of thousands of men and the hooves of thousands of horses. But even that dirt you miss when the dirt becomes waterlogged with blood and shit and entrails after a battle. A battle where for hours afterwards you can still hear the screams and groans of dying men, and even after they have died away they don’t leave you entirely.”

“Harrenhal smells of burnt stone, even after all these centuries.” Arya said as Robb’s voice trailed off, “The melted stones are still a symbol of the horrific power of dragons, but none of that compares to the horrors that men are capable of. Men who can take the faces of others, men who throw people into bear pits with only a wooden sword, men who murder and rape and steal whatever they wish because they think they are protected by their name and title.” 

Jon opened his mouth as if to continue but Mother stood, her eyes boring into all of them in turn, silencing them all. 

“I don't know where you got this imagery and information from.” Mother said, “But you need to stop with this joke right now. What you are all saying is utterly blasphemous, and by all rights I ought to send you to the Sept to pray to the Seven for forgiveness for such insult.” 

“Mother!” Robb squawked, “You have to believe us!”

Father shook his head and grimaced, “You must understand, this sounds like a fanciful tale at best.”

Jon sighed and shoved his chair back, the feet scraping against the stone floor with a loud screech that called everyone’s attention to him.

“If you need any more confirmation of the truth we are telling, then here it is: I know who my mother is.”


	5. Jon

Jon could not decide if the knife through his heart or death through dragon fire was worse. The dragon fire had been more painful, but by that point he had been ready to die in a way. His siblings were all dead, Winterfell and the North had been all but completely destroyed.

It had been Arya’s charred body that had finally broken his last hope of happiness, recognisable only by Needle in her hand and a mostly melted direwolf pin inside the remnants of her cloak. 

He could not decide which was worse, and was unsure if he really wanted to. It seemed like something a little too gloomy, even for him. 

“Jon Snow.” A voice boomed through the blackness in which Jon had found himself. It was a familiar voice, one which haunted so many of his dreams and nightmares.

“Lord Mormont?” Jon searched the blackness for that familiar face, “My lord?”

Slowly the blackness receded, slowly the face of his mentor appeared.

“You failed, Jon Snow. You betrayed your oaths.”

Hurt stabbed at Jon’s heart, at the callous words coming from a man he had respected so much.

“I betrayed nothing.” Jon denied.

Lord Mormont leaned forwards, Longclaw heavy across his lap. Longclaw, still decorated with the bear, a denial of Jon in more than one way.

“You swore vows, Jon Snow, vows to the Watch. Vows to your family. Vows to your people. Even vows made before the Old Gods are vows sworn to me.”

The faintest of memories tugged at the back of Jon’s mind, the hint of a lullaby that had been sung to Robb when they shared the nursery.

“The Warrior.” He whispered, hardly able to believe it, “But- But I do not worship you or your kin, and nor did Lord Mormont. Why have you appeared to me in this way?”

The Warrior smiled a cold smile, the sort of smile that Jon could imagine upon the face of a Commander that sent men to their deaths with nary a troubled thought.

“You were chosen, Jon Snow, for your ability to make things as they should have been. Rhollor saw fit to bring you back the first time, but this time we require more of you. Of you, and your siblings.”

The mention of his siblings made Jon’s shoulders stiffen. He had sworn to protect them, and he would fulfill that promise as best he could, even if it meant fighting a god. 

“You stay away from my siblings, they are not soldiers.” He threatened, fully aware and uncaring that the god could smite him into dust if he so wished.

“Not like you, no. You swore to guard the realms of men for this night and all nights to come, Jon Snow.” The Warrior said, “The nights are not yet over and nor is your Watch.”

Jon screwed up his face in anger, “My Watch ended. It ended when my own men killed me. It certainly ended when I was burnt alive for the crime of having dragon’s blood.”

The Warrior leant forwards, the same expression on his face that Jeor had worn when Jon had said something he had deemed to be childish. 

“Your vows are over when the gods say they are. You are not a boy, Jon Snow, you must fulfil your promises and step up to defend the realms of men once more.” 

A wave of exhaustion swept over Jon once more, sinking into his very bones.

It seemed Ser Alliser’s words had been true: he was always going to be fighting other men’s battles.

* * *

A sudden silence filled the room after Jon’s proclamation. His siblings, bar Arya and Bran, turned to look at him with confusion; Lady Catelyn’s face filled with a sort of cold rage; and Father’s eyes turned pleading, as though begging Jon not to reveal what he knew.

Jon did not care. This secret had been kept far too long by Father, and had resulted in Jon and Bran’s deaths.

“Jon-” Father stood as well and reached out to him, but Jon ignored him.

“My mother was Lyanna Stark. It is a secret you carry to the grave with you, Father. That your sister did not die of Sand sickness as you so claimed, but instead in the birthing bed, helping a bastard born of rape.” Jon kept his voice as emotionless as he could, reciting the facts instead of feeling them. If he let himself think about them for even a moment then he would surely break.

It was the information which had killed him after all. 

Jon turned his eyes to look at his siblings, to draw strength from them all. Sansa’s mouth was parted slightly with shock, her eyes wide, and beside her Robb was wearing an identical expression.

“Dragon spawn.” Lady Catelyn whispered with dawning horror, “You have brought treason into our home.” 

“He was a babe! He was my nephew!” Father tried to defend himself, “Family! I had a duty towards him, towards Lyanna, and a vow I had to keep!”

“Fourteen years I have lived with your insult to me, your dishonour” Lady Catelyn spoke with a simmering fury, “And now I find that it is treason you hid. And yet, yet you try to speak to me about family! About duty! About honour! How very dare you Eddard Stark. How very dare you lecture a Tully of Riverrun on those principles we hold above all else.”

Father paled significantly, “Cat- I- You must-“

Lady Catelyn scoffed and stalked across the chamber to the door, “I must do nothing, _my lord._ Except perhaps rethink my feelings regarding our marriage if you have so casually lied to me for so long about something of such great and terrible importance.”

She exited the room, loudly banging the door behind her as she went, and leaving silence in her wake.

Jon did not blame her for such a reaction at all. In fact, he thought it rather restrained of her, he certainly knew that if he had been in the same situation as Lady Catelyn he would not have been so calm. He would have shouted and screamed and in all likelihood thrown something.

Father turned to Jon next, his face wan and his shoulders slumped, “You have made your point, I suppose. All of you. I- I shall have to think over what you have said, and- and let it all sink in properly before we make any hasty decisions.”

Jon could see from his face that there was still a hint of scepticism in his mind, a belief that they must have come by this information elsewhere, no matter how improbable it might have been.

“In a few days,” He spoke quietly, “There will be news of a deserter from the Night’s Watch. You will ride out to execute him, and we will accompany you. On the way back we will find a direwolf with six pups.”

Father raised an eyebrow and nodded, before he too departed from the room. Likely to seek aid and solace from the Weirwood or to find Lady Catelyn and attempt to explain.

Silence followed his departure, and Jon caught sight of his siblings exchanging heavy glances.

“I am sorry.” He had to confess suddenly, his own gaze dropping to his lap, “I did not mean to cause an argument.”

A hand dropped upon his shoulders, a slender, small hand that still felt the wrong size although they had been back some time.

“Tell me, brother.” Sansa said, in a voice as sweet as spun sugar, “Was this information the reason for your demise? Or was it something else that led to the Dragon Queen burning you?”

Jon flinched. How did Sansa know how he had died? 

“It is written on your face, Jon.” Sansa spoke once more, “You flinch away from flames in the same way you flinched from your brother in black if they came too close to your back. It was not a terribly difficult conclusion to draw.”

It would have been Sansa who worked it out. Sansa always seemed to know and see everything. 

“It’s the reason for Arya and Bran’s deaths as well.” Jon finally found it within himself to whisper, “Daenerys Targaryen found out, I told her myself in an attempt to prevent her from finding out through another’s words. I thought- I thought perhaps it might placate her a little, if I managed to reassure her I did not want her throne.”

Arya let out a sharp noise of protest, as though his words or perhaps his self deprecating tone was causing her literal pain.

“I was wrong.” Jon finally looked up and met Sansa’s eyes, “I was stupid, and had underestimated her lust for power and paranoia. And the paranoia of her sycophants.”

“Oh Jon,” Sansa sounded heartbroken, “That was not your fault. With any other ruler that perhaps might have worked, or at the very least you might have enjoyed exile instead of an agonising death.”

“I would not have called it agonising.” Jon whispered, “It hurt no less than my death at the hands of the traitors. I was almost ready to go at that point, had lost everything that made life worth living.”

Jon sank back into his chair and let out a breath he had not realised had been trapped in his throat at the comfort of small arms being wrapped around his middle and the head of russet curls that tickled his nose.

“Brother.” Rickon whispered, pressing his nose against Jon’s neck.

At that moment, it was exactly what Jon needed to hear. 

* * *

Jon missed Satin. 

Jon missed his sweet smile and quick wit. 

Jon missed the way he always seemed to know how to reassure him after a period of stress, the way he seemed to have endless optimism for the world around him. 

Optimism that had been snuffed out forever when the Wall had fallen, buried under ice and rock. The single advantage of his burial was that he had not become a wight, that he had not been forced to fight against his brothers, that he had not been forced to fight against Jon. 

Satin was alive now though, he was alive and in Oldtown. If Jon so chose he could travel to Oldtown and buy an hour of Satin’s time. 

He would not do that though, it would feel like a betrayal of Satin’s trust, like he would be taking advantage of the man he loved. 

What Jon would rather do, if he was being honest with himself, would be to find a way to bring Satin to Winterfell, to give him a home and work where he did not have to sell his body just to make ends meet. 

He wanted to take Satin away from the place which would eventually drive him to stab a lord in defence of one of the girls that worked in the brothel.

And yet Satin was proud, he would not accept charity. He would view it with disdain and suspicion. 

If Jon was to save Satin from his fate, then he would have to be canny about it.

After all, he was not sure he could live with himself if he allowed Satin to be sentenced to the Wall once more. 

* * *

Jon could still see Rickon reaching for him, could still see him falling to the ground with an arrow protruding from his chest.

It was all he could see when he looked at his baby brother’s face. And he knew that it was all Rickon could see as well, that he could only see the hope that had been snatched away from him by a sadistic man.

It did not stop Rickon from clinging to him though. Not when Jon had been the only one in his mind to come back for him.

Rickon slept in Jon’s bed more often than not, finding solace from the nightmares and memories that haunted him. It seemed that most of Rickon’s memories of Winterfell were horrendous, tainted by Ramsay Bolton and how he had killed Shaggydog in front of him. 

He did not trust Lady Catelyn either, his memories of her so faded as to be almost gone. He bit her, and the nurses that tried to care for him, hard enough to draw blood.

Jon wanted nothing more than to restore Rickon’s sweeter memories of their family and Winterfell, or to wrap him up in a soft blanket and keep him safe from the world.

Failing all that he did what he could to comfort his baby brother, to try and build new memories of their family so that Rickon could stop being so scared all the time.

He told him stories, and reminded him as much as he could of the games and sweetness that their family used to share. He wrapped him up in all the comfort that Rickon would take from him, even going so far as to allow his baby brother to sleep curled up on his chest like a wolf pup at night. 

He was still the only one that Rickon would attend to, the only one that Rickon would allow near him. Anyone else was met with screams and tears, as the fear and confusion that was too great for his terribly young mind to handle found a way to be expressed.

It was why he was not terribly surprised when the appearance of Robb at his door made Rickon scurry out of his chamber as fast as he could toddle. 

“He doesn’t remember any of us, you know.” Jon said quietly, once he was sure Rickon was out of earshot. “His strongest memory is of me, racing across a battlefield when I failed to save him. He can remember Bran leaving him to go Beyond the Wall, and the stories Ramsay Bolton told him of what he did to Sansa. But otherwise, well, otherwise we are all just faint memories that he says feel more like dreams.”

Robb looked at the door through which Rickon had left, “Well then, I shall have to help him make new memories.”

Jon smiled faintly, a smile that quickly disappeared under the weight of the fear that still flowed through his veins. Fear that Robb, his brother, his best friend, might now reject him with the knowledge he held regarding his parentage.

It was a fear he perhaps should not have held. 

“You are still my brother, Snow.” Robb threw an arm about Jon’s shoulder with a grin. “No matter what stupid name you might hold.”

Jon shoved his brother, “Fuck off, Stark.”

He wasn’t in the mood for Robb’s good cheer, even if his brother’s kind words did spark a sweet joy in his chest. 

“What is your stupid Targaryen name anyway?” Robb shoved him back, “Jaehaerys? Aemon? Jonerys? Jaegon?” 

“You’re a fucking shit, you know that Stark.” Jon leaned into his brother, and lowered his voice, “It’s Aegon apparently. That’s the name Rhaegar had planned for me.”

He could feel Robb still, could feel his brother’s muscles stiffen.

“That absolute _bastard_!” Robb cursed, “How could he even think of giving you the same name as his other son?”

Jon shrugged, “Guess he was so busy kidnapping my mother that he forgot all about his actual wife and children.”

Robb’s fist clenched in his lap, and Jon wondered whether he was thinking of the wife he had had. The wife he had left behind when he died. 

Jon could not offer him words of comfort regarding Jeyne Westerling, for he did not know what had happened to her. He had not even thought to ask, to his shame, for his mind had been too occupied with the war against the Others and keeping his siblings safe.

He leaned into his brother, offering him silent comfort. 

A knock on the door drew them out of their comfortable silence, and it was mere moments before Bran’s head poked into the room.

“Father has called for us all to meet him at the stables.” Bran met their gaze with a heavy look, “There’s been a deserter from the Watch.”


	6. Robb

Riding out to the execution of the deserter from the Watch was almost like being in a dream. More so than anything else he had experienced since waking, the conversation was as he remembered it, the sights the same, even the scents were the same.

It was odd to think that in another life it had been one of the last moments of normality for his family, that when they returned there would be a letter waiting for them informing them of Jon Arryn’s death.

He was looking forward to seeing Grey Wind again though, he had felt almost lost without his constant companion at his side. In the end Grey Wind had been the only one not to betray or abandon him. 

He had stayed loyal until the end, and Robb felt the loss of the one he knew without a shadow of a doubt he could trust keenly. 

And yet, just because he had been betrayed before it did not mean he would be betrayed again. 

Theon would not make the same choices he had last time, Robb was sure of that. Not when he was so attached to Sansa, not when he had suffered so for his choices last time.

Sansa and Arya had not been allowed to accompany them, not even when both had begged father. He did not believe it appropriate for them to witness an execution, even with all they had claimed to have seen. Or perhaps it was because they claimed to have seen things, Father still did not quite believe them yet, and likely would not until the wolves were in their hands. 

Privately Robb thought it was probably a good thing that Sansa and Arya were not present, they had been the last ones to see Ice used. The last ones to see it fly through the air and cleave through a neck. To cleave through their father’s neck.

He did not know how witnessing such a sight would affect them, and did not want to cause them any pain. Not when they already seemed to be hurting so much.

The deserter waited for them at the block, and as before he started to babble about the dead walking. This time though Robb paid attention, his siblings had spoken of the dead rising, and it was terrifying to think that they had ignored all the early warnings the last time around. This time they would not be so lax, this time they would be as prepared as they could. 

Father’s eyes met Robb’s, and for a moment he appeared as troubled as Robb himself felt at the deserter’s words. 

But he had to do his duty, and with a great swing of Ice so the deserter’s head fell to the floor. 

The last time this had happened Theon had kicked the head, laughing in a show of carelessness that Robb had known to be false. Theon had lived in fear of Ice, and had forced himself to pretend otherwise by laughing and having at executions.

He had once admitted to Robb that he had laughed so as to not picture himself in the executed’s place.

They were more somber riding back, and the sense of anticipation in Robb’s stomach slowly started to increase the closer and closer they got to the creek where they had found the wolves.

It was Bran who rushed ahead this time, desperate to see Summer once more. Robb did not blame him, he missed Grey Wind something terribly. 

“Father! Robb! Jon!” Bran called in excitement through the trees, “Come quickly!”

Even though, or perhaps because, Robb knew what Bran had found, he sped up his horse until they were racing through the trees to his brother’s side.

Robb did not remember dismounting, nor could he recall the warning or exclamation his father must have shouted upon seeing the dead direwolf, all he could focus on was the tiny bundle of grey fur that Bran was holding out to him.

“Grey Wind.” Robb breathed, hardly able to recall him ever being so small.

He scooped up Grey Wind from Bran’s arms and released a breath he had not known he was holding. It felt like recovering a part of him that had been missing, a piece of his soul that had been lost. 

Grey Wind’s soft eyes blinked at him and suddenly...

_The scent of terror filled the air. Terror and rage and blood. The clashing of metal against metal and the screams of the dying._

_Smoke and rage and death and betrayal._

_And he was stuck in a cage that stank of misery and dead things. A cage with bars of metal that would not break no matter how much he threw himself at them._

_There was a man, one familiar, one who was_ almost _a brother, who scrabbled at the lock. But he was not able to open it, not before an arrow pierced his back._

_Men thundered into the building that housed his cage, men in the blue and silver, and the red and pink that he was not supposed to attack. And yet they aimed their weapons at him._

_What was happening? Why was this happening? His hackles raised in confusion and fear, and a growl started to leave his throat._

_“Ready, aim, loose!” One of the men yelled, fear spiking his scent every time he looked over._

_They were words he had heard before, words that normally signalled the start of the time when he would run alongside his bonded and tear out the throats of those who dared try and hurt him._

_They were not words he had heard aimed his way before. Not so closely anyway, and for a moment he felt only confusion._

_And then a sharp pain pierced his side, and another, and another._

_And then his human was there, scared and raging and so, so sad…_

_They howled as one. Howled their pain and their grief and their anger at the men._

_And then another pain hit them…_

_And then…_

_And then…_

_And then…_

A hand clasped onto his shoulder, warm and steady and familiar, and Robb looked up into Theon’s eyes, tucking Grey Wind into his neck as he did so. 

“Steady there Stark.” Theon said, his voice as gentle as it was when he spoke to Rickon, “Don't want you collapsing on us now.” 

Robb blinked, and looked up at Theon, “I- I saw- the Freys and- and-“ He started to breathe quickly, the images flashing before his eyes like he was living them again.

“I know.” Slowly, carefully, Theon drew Robb into a hug, “Ramsay liked to torment me with the details. He liked to know that I could not react to what he said.”

Robb wanted to pull away from Theon, and yet, he did not want to either. He had missed the seemingly steady warmth and affection that Theon offered him, and had all but fallen apart when he had lost it.

The loss of that affection had been almost as bad as the betrayal itself, not that Robb would ever admit so outside of his own mind.

When Theon released him, Robb looked for his brothers, to see how they were reacting to reuniting with their wolves. He was surprised to see that Jon was merely looking at Ghost, that he had not yet picked him up, and only did so after Robb gave him an encouraging look.

Jon picked up the snow white pup by the scruff of its neck, and blanched almost as pale as its fur as he looked into its eyes. Whatever he was seeing, whatever his pup was showing him, it was enough to bring tears to the corners of his eyes. 

Then again, if it was anything like what Grey Wind had shown Robb, it was no wonder Jon was reacting like that.

Robb looked to Theon, silently asking him to knock Jon from it like he had knocked Robb himself out of Grey Wind’s trance. 

“What’s up Snow?” Theon called, sounding for a moment like his old self, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

Even Bran, who had been busy communicating with his own wolf that he appeared oblivious to everything else, groaned. Robb merely shook his head, he should have known that Theon would do something like that. 

Jon glared at Theon with such ire that Robb was almost surprised that Theon did not spontaneously burst into flames.

“Fuck off Greyjoy.” Jon said, with a fondness to his tone that Robb had never heard before, “You aren’t as funny as you think you are.”

Theon sniffed and scooped up the direwolf that Robb recognised as Lady, “Well then, if my humour is not to be appreciated here I shall take it to someone who will. _Sansa_ thinks I’m funny.”

The strangest thing was, Robb was sure Theon was right. Sansa did think Theon was funny. 

And Robb did not know why that made a spike of jealousy flare in his heart. 

* * *

Robb had not stayed to see his siblings reunite with their wolves, not to see his mother’s reaction to it. He could not bring himself to relive such moments again, not when he could still see Jeyne’s brother in his mind, Jeyne who he had not really thought much about since waking.

It was strange, but in a way Robb did not miss his wife as much as he thought he would. He found himself turning around and looking for her sometimes, when he heard a jape he thought she might find amusing, but he did not miss her with the all encompassing longing he had felt when Theon had left him. It was more a sort of soft fondness and wistful might have beens that swirled around his head when he thought of her.

They had not been in love, but they had been starting to love one another. With time perhaps their feelings would have grown like Robb’s own parents. 

He would like to find her again though, to at least see that she was happy and healthy. Maybe even to dance with her one last time, before seeing her in the arms of some other, far more suitable, man. 

A small, rough tongue licked at his cheek, and the tear that trickled down it, startling him from his thoughts. Paws pressed against his front, and the tongue lapped at his cheek again as Grey Wind tried to comfort him.

“Shh,” Robb soothed, running a gentle hand over his wolf pup’s head, “I’m alright.”

There was something so incredibly human in the look that Grey Wind gave him, his head cocked to one side in utter disbelief.

“No really!” Robb said, a laugh escaping his lips, “You made me all better. I was just- I was just thinking of Jeyne.”

Grey Wind yipped, and nuzzled the patch of skin behind Robb’s ear with his cold little nose. It was the place where Grey Wind best loved to be scratched himself, and he obviously thought it would have the same effect on Robb.

Sometimes Robb did not think he deserved Grey Wind.

Sometimes Robb thought that he never should have brought Grey Wind to the Twins with him, never should have locked him up. Maybe then he would have lived. Maybe then he would have been able to help Robb’s family in the way that Robb himself could not. 

He almost started crying properly at that thought, but his door started to freak open. Robb would not let himself be caught crying, not when he was supposed to be strong. 

“Robb?” It was Jon, Jon who had stepped up and saved their siblings when Robb was unable. Jon who had reclaimed their home, and protected Sansa, and saved the North. Jon who had not failed as Robb had.

He looked up dully, “Yes?”

It was hard to look at his brother without seeing his own failures. Hard to look at Jon and not see everything he did wrong. His brother had died and forsaken his vows for their siblings, and Robb? Robb had left them to the mercy of their captors, burying his head in the sand and pretending that no one would dare hurt them. 

“Sansa wants to speak to us all again, she wants to make sure that our aims are all aligned.”

It sometimes seemed that all Sansa wanted to do was plan and discuss their next steps. It was unfair to think perhaps, when planning was so important, but Robb just wanted the chance for some action. 

“Why not?” Robb forced himself to his feet, “I’m sure more talking will help.”

Something like worry flashed across Jon’s face, and he reached out to Robb. Robb shrugged his brother off, and tried to ignore the hurt in Jon’s eyes.

Instead he tucked Grey Wind even closer against his neck and started down the hall to Sansa’s chambers, Jon following behind him.

Ghost was not at Jon’s feet, and perhaps that should have surprised Robb as he could not bear to be parted from Grey Wind. He had noticed though that Jon almost seemed to look upon his wolf with guilt, like he had done something terrible to him. 

Everyone was sat waiting for them inside Sansa’s chambers: Arya hanging on the bed, her legs on the mattress and her head on the floor; Bran was on the floor surrounded by the wolf pups and Rickon; while Sansa and Theon were all but curled up together on one of the stuffed chairs. 

“Father has heard from King Robert.” Sansa announced almost as soon as they had entered the room, “We have less time than we thought, we need to decide what our next steps are _now._ ”

“We stop Father from becoming Hand.” Arya said, as though the choice was obvious.

Sansa shook her head, “But how do we do that? And what might happen, who might become Hand if Father does not? Do we really want to change things that much?” 

Sansa had a point, Robb thought as he sat down opposite her. 

“Father only just believes us now,” Robb pointed out, “And even then I am sure some part of him believes it to be a great coincidence. We have to be careful with what we do, and do not change. What might happen if Tywin Lannister is made Hand?”

Jon nodded, “Aye, better the devil we know. And he’ll want to take some of us with him again, Sansa and Arya for sure, and probably Bran as well. I, for one, do not want you three alone in that vipers’ nest again if things go wrong.”

Robb had not even thought of that, “I can go with you if need be,” He offered, “Make some excuse that it would be good for the future Lord of Winterfell to meet other courtiers.”

His sister’s gaze was calculating as she laid it upon him, “No.” she said slowly, “I do not think that would be the wisest course of action. We need you to call the banners again if necessary. The North will need a leader, a king, and you are by far the best candidate for that.”

Sansa surely meant that as a compliment, and yet all Robb could think of was his failures as a king. 

“What about Joffrey?” Bran suddenly said, looking up from where he was playing with Rickon and the pups on the floor, “Won’t Mother and Father betroth you to him again?”

“I would rather die than be betrothed to him again if I can help it.” Sansa spat, “Would rather marry my own brother than be forced into a betrothal that would cause war if it was broken.”

Robb felt a little ill at the thought, he understood that Sansa was making a point, but did not want to tempt the gods into making such a thing a reality. 

“Well,” Theon said, his voice far too calm for his trembling hands, “You could always marry me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Find me on tumblr @istaricelebelasse


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